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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818370">knight errant</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeapocalypse/pseuds/beeapocalypse'>beeapocalypse</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), daisy shows up for two seconds but not long enough 2 warrant tagging her, thats. the only real tag that applies to this LOL?</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 12:07:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beeapocalypse/pseuds/beeapocalypse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>rather than that of mike crews home, jude gives jon the address to a small park a medieval reenactment troupe tends to frequent<br/>(OR instead of mike jon meets w a slaughter avatar for his second "welcome to hell !" chat)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>knight errant</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i love tma+i love making lame ocs and thinking abt what if they got their own chance 2 bully jon &lt;3</p><p>if theres weirdo timeline stuff (ie like how i almost forgot jon thought the slaughter+desolation were the same thing b4 talking to gerry LOL) thats bc the start of s3 pre gerry chat is a weird gray mass in my memory :pensive:</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was not the clash of steel upon steel, nor the shouts that drifted up in the air- improvised war cries and far more real shouts of pain alike- that had Jon realizing that he should’ve paid closer attention to the look in Jude’s eye when she told him the address. He watched a horse saunter past, a somber woman in armor perched upon its back, and didn’t have the sense to feel worried with how close her sheathed sword had passed by his face. A blatant disregard for personal boundaries, far too many sharp instruments being swung about, the large park field looked more a brawl than a proper medieval reenactment- one organized by a group that called itself Blood&amp;Blade Battles, Jon had learned from a cursory google. Groups would break off into their own brawls, spitting things that looked more personal than they should- no structure to it all beyond the near rhythm that could be found in the clanking and shouts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, he got that feeling after sitting awkwardly on a bench far too long, just far enough away that passerbys would think he was just watching, not waiting for one of the reenactors to meet with him. Five minutes, ten, fifteen, they dragged worse than anything else. Made him jittery- the anticipation of pain, because what else could there be </span>
  <em>
    <span>but</span>
  </em>
  <span> pain, dealing with this sort of fellow- made him start to overthink. Was this stupid? Of course it was, going any closer than three miles away from any address the wax woman had given him was bound to be stupid, but was it </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>? To meet with an avatar of violence and guts without letting anyone know where he was going, just in case he did not come back? Anyone would have had to be Georgie, and Jon dreaded to involve her anymore than she already was, but this was the sort of thing that lorded over </span>
  <em>
    <span>war. </span>
  </em>
  <span>This was worse than he wanted to even think about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon’s burnt and still wrapped hand had almost found his mouth to start gnawing at his nails without thought when cold metal slapping down on his shoulder made him near jump out his skin. The speed in which he whirled around almost broke his precarious perch upon the bench, the sharp laugh at his shock insult to injury. The gauntlet- a damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>gauntlet</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the sort hammered at in a forge for hours on end- tightened its grip for a moment before the figure stood before him pulled away, unable to wipe the bright smile off their face. “My bad, man. Didn’t mean to scare you </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had to be Jon’s man, </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. Dressed in a poor stitched surcoat with colors almost too faded to make out the yellow and blue, scuffed plate helmet near pulled over their eyes, earbuds cord slipping out from the reach of chainmail and messy cut hair alike. They would look as if they’d walked right out of another time if it weren’t for the tiny details- the sneakers even Jon recognized the brand of, and an </span>
  <em>
    <span>expensive</span>
  </em>
  <span> brand at that- and one of two takeout bags they carried that was shoved in his face. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting either. Got you some egg rolls to make up for that, if you’d want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon coughed out some non-word, flushed at the quick smile that got from the man stood before him, and cleared his throat before trying again. “Ah, you’re- you’re Galahad? Or, rather, Palomides?” The bag smelled of something sweet and a little bit burnt, and it was only out of not knowing what else to do with his hands that he took it. “It’s fine,” Jon protested, even while holding the food, “I don’t need- I, ah, I ate on the way here.” He hadn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure? Got them from a buddy’s shop, they’re real good.” They rolled their eyes at the responding head shake. “Alright your choice.” They shuffled over to sit down next to Jon at the bench, smiling just a bit at how he scooted away. “Yeah, I guess you can call me either of those. Thrown around so many different names that I have a hard time keeping up with them. People here call me Beowulf, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beowulf. I’m Jonathan.” Jon clasped his hands together, pulled them back apart, wincing at how instinctive his own introduction was. “Ah- You go for the more easily recognizable names. Of knights, that is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah. Not exactly a medieval literature buff myself.” Beowulf crossed their legs and started rooting around in their own bag, pulled out a small container. “I do like that it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>unique</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though. Breaking out of the idea of trenches and all that, just a bit. Prefer something a bit more personal than,” a vague hand gesture, a curl of the lip, “I don’t know, tapping in a few coordinates for a bomb. War like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” A pointed stab into the container with the plastic fork they had dug out, “Scares the shit out of me. Worse than I want to be scared, even in pursuit of </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” A gesture between the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All Jon could manage was a soft, “Quite”. A moment passed between the two, Beowulf’s eyes locked on the mock battlefield that was still going strong and bobbing their head to the beat of their music, Jon now reaching into his jacket pocket for the recorder just to fiddle with it. “Ah-” He almost felt bad for breaking the silence, “Jude sent me. Jude Perry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jon almost repeated himself before Beowulf spoke up again. “Oh. Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jude</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Yeah, I know her.” Their free hand fanned out. “The wax woman . The, ah, burning banker.” They smiled over the alliteration. “Why? Oh, sorry. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> the one here who ought to be asking questions, aren’t you? Archives folk like you always are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose so.” The casual slump of their shoulders, how they pried their eyes away from the carnage as they spoke to him but didn’t strive for eye contact, it was enough to put Jon at some ease. “You feature in some of our statements, you know? To answer your question. I, ah, read some of them- blood and blades sort of things?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” That got them sitting up straight. “Can’t see why that’d be the case. I’m such a small fish in the sea, you know, just one guy when there’s cults and the like going on. Whole circuses marching around and you get little ghost stories about </span>
  <em>
    <span>me?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” They covered their mouth with the hand holding the fork, clearly trying to force down a laugh. “Man, really? You read about Grifter’s Bone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, there was a statement about them, a little-” Jon cut himself off when Beowulf leaned close, reaching one hand up to an earbud, “A-A little… Ah. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh.</span>
  </em>
  <span> You’re the same.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A little shrug, a mean smile. “Kind of, I guess. You could call me a groupie. Want to hear? Listening to one of their best right now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Jon bit the word out with more fear than he cared for, any sense of comfort ground out under heel for the moment that Beowulf didn’t move their hand away. Then, they rolled their eyes and straightened back into their own space. “No, I believe I’m- I’m quite fine as is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right then.” Another moment of quiet, Beowulf picking at their fried rice with furrowed brows before suddenly looking up. “You didn’t think I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grifter</span>
  </em>
  <span>, did you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jon blinked, then huffed out what might’ve been a nervous laugh. “Oh, no. I meant more in the-” He waved a hand towards the brawling knights, struggling to find words for it, “-in that sort of sense. The… Bloody brutality. Cruelty and loss, sort of?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lack of an answer made Jon pull his eyes from the battlefield- where a man had another pinned to the ground underfoot, attempting to drive his sword downwards even as the other writhed like a worm- and meet the bemused stare of Beowulf. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much about all this do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” They didn’t give him a chance to respond, already plowing forwards as their voice pitched with incredulity. “I mean- seriously, how much have you been told by your spooky boss,” There, they widened their eyes theatrically, “Or whoever shoved a tape recorder in your hand? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loss?</span>
  </em>
  <span> I don’t give a damn about </span>
  <em>
    <span>loss</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even if I’m on friendly enough terms with Jude.” A note of </span>
  <em>
    <span>insult</span>
  </em>
  <span> entered their voice. “Really, I could tell the difference the first moment I realized just how in over my head I was. You’re the eye guy, your </span>
  <em>
    <span>whole</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing is knowing things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t- er, I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Jon leaned away, shoulders hunching near his ears as he watched with confusion and fear hand in hand. “What do you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously, you don’t know? What- did you get dropped into the role of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Archivist</span>
  </em>
  <span> and not get told about anything but the pay raise? No ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, here’s a little rundown, and here’s the breakroom’</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Man, that’s even worse than </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> about?” The instant Jon managed to get a word in edgewise, Beowulf shut their mouth with an audible click of teeth. Their eyes narrowed, looking from him to some vague middle ground, before they forced the tension out of their clenched jaws. Oh. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>question</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not mere words. Jon bit back the unease at that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think… There’s a reason you don’t know jackshit. A reason that I don’t want to go poking at. Who am I, to go around messing with the Eye’s plans?” Beowulf shook their head and forced out a laugh, but there was a guarded look in their eye, a distance in their voice. “To answer your question, in a suitably roundabout way, there’s… Things. Things you don’t know about. And one of those things is the distinction between violence,” A quick point out to the knights, “And loss.” A finger jabbed down to Jon’s bandaged hand, which he quickly pulled to his chest. “Don’t ask for details. I like you, but not enough to play nice when it comes down to it, alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon knew he could press, that the knight errant would be helpless to keep the answers from spilling out. But he was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>tired</span>
  </em>
  <span> of getting hurt at every turn, paying blood for every half answer that just got him deeper and deeper in over his head. So he’d force himself to be content with this half revealed puzzle piece, a fraction of a fraction of the horrid conclusion he was working towards- pawing at the pieces with blinded eyes and not even the picture on the box to reference. Jon nodded, crinkled the takeout bag under his clenching hand, the other tapping away at the tape recorder. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That got a bemused huff out of them. “‘Okay’? That’s all you got to say? I’m practically dangling information on a string right in front of your nose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With a rather, ah, implicit threat behind it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Yeah, you’re right. Still didn’t expect you to roll over and show your belly so easily, not even a little bit of teeth. Other archivist had </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> more bite than you.” Beowulf rolled their shoulders, shaking off the tension as a wet dog would. “Spooky boss must’ve gotten tired of having a new feud with a new power every week because of her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gertrude?” Jon couldn’t help but sit up straight at her mention. “What-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, remember what I said!” Beowulf matched his posture, lifting a finger to their grinning lips. “No questions, Jonny boy. Bet I’ve given you more little clues than Jude- don’t want to push your luck and come out of this chat like you did with hers, yeah?” A quick glance down to his bandaged hand. “Though I can’t promise that I would be as nice as her. Just one toasted hand- she must’ve felt soft.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jon clenched his teeth, grit them together, and could’ve sworn he felt his jaw click in some painful way. A bright flash of pain from gripping his burnt hand too hard, and he recognized the angle in Beowulf’s smile from a childhood of being bullied. They were goading him on, jumping about and practically begging him to push too far. “Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>why</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” He strained for a neutral tone, keeping it from shaking with familiar fear and alien anger alike, “Did you agree to meet with me? If not to just- just wave around the truth in my face?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why do you think that’s not exactly what I wanted to do? I butted heads with your </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gertrude</span>
  </em>
  <span> just one time and she took a finger.” Beowulf fanned their left hand out and Jon’s eyes locked on the ring finger. Cut off just below the first knuckle. He wondered in an absent sort of way if they had to find a specialty craftsman to fashion gauntlets that accounted for that. “Go on, I’ll let you get in one question. Ask how it happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another wave of belligerent annoyance. Jon struggled for objectivity in his emotions, to look at them from a distant and logical perspective, but damn if he had ever been able to do such. Far more natural to let them rock his very core, washing away everything he ought to know, leaving him to watch them drift out in the tide, and he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sick</span>
  </em>
  <span> of drawn out metaphors and helplessness. So he bit out, “How did you lose your finger?”, even while a corner of his mind recognized that this was not agency, but a path he had been deliberately led towards.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She bit it off.” Beowulf did not balk at the compulsion this time, instead leaning into it as their voice took on a story teller’s affect. “Just like that, you know? A flash of teeth, a hand waved too close to the dog’s mouth, and then there was blood. My fault, really. I’d heard all about the woman at that point- even a small fish like me had caught enough rumors about the archive’s new question-barker. Just thought that everyone else was a bunch of cowardly idiots, that they got scared by, I don’t know, a knife getting waved in their face without any real intention or something. I was wrong, of course, but it was one of those sorts of miscalculations that are </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>, even if you don’t realize it at first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Though maybe, that isn’t the whole story. Yes, I lost my finger when Gertrude Robinson bit it off, but there was a lead up to that. Beyond the circumstances that placed me in the line of her teeth, beyond the day that brought me to that alley, there was what brought me </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Baptised me anew in blood and guts and </span>
  <em>
    <span>war</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it's when they don’t stop talking, their eyes getting further and further away by the moment, that Jon realizes maybe even one simple question had pushed too far. Was it his anger? Beowulf had shaken off his other question easily enough, had enough awareness outside of the overwhelming, choking </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to speak to realize that doing so too much may put them in danger. There was intent behind this question, not the gray-haze, taste of static at the back of his throat and mind alike that typically came when Jon pressed far enough. It had always felt as if his tongue had fallen asleep, a dead-fish thing that moved on its own accord, always in the pursuit for more and </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span> knowledge- but not now. There was a clarity in the moment he had asked, brought about by the wasp buzzing anger, and now he was getting a statement for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’d say that I lost my finger- spiritually, at least- the day that a dog bit my hand while I was trying to pet it. It wasn’t a stray dog that I’d backed into the corner of an alley, or some hurt thing that I was stupid enough to approach- just some pampered big dog who’s backyard faced the street that I always walked down on the way to the bus stop. One of those real fluffy ones, you know? Like, with fur in their eyes and everything. But the moment that I jerked my hand back and saw the blood it had drawn, I knew that it hadn’t bit me because it had been startled by the hand poking through the fence- it had lashed out with full clarity of its actions and a desire to make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I almost feel bad for whoever owned such a vile beast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I started picking fights at school after that. A lot harder than you’d think, to go from the little nerd who always turned their work in on time to the guy you knew better than to make eye contact with if you weren’t looking for trouble. I got the </span>
  <em>
    <span>violence</span>
  </em>
  <span> part down easily enough- breaking noses and bruising knuckles is easy enough if you just listen to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rhythm</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the fight- but it always felt as if there was something missing. I graduated by the skin of my teeth, got fired from my first job shortly after for taunting a customer into coming after me, and started drifting. Dyed my hair, got some piercings, all the usual stuff. I thought I was missing the </span>
  <em>
    <span>aesthetic</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the nose-breaker and tooth-taker, that if I looked tough enough I would find the real definition in the violence that had so taken over my mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A stupid thought, I know. I know how I dress now, but that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>different</span>
  </em>
  <span> from what I was chasing then. The armor and all that is more me having fun- I mean, why not? If I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I might as well live out some of those lame teenager daydreams as well. Act out those grand fantastical stories I would always read, if only through blade and look. But I digress. What I was missing, I learned, was </span>
  <em>
    <span>perspective. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All I had really seen of this all consuming, all defining violence was a mean dog. So I thought of it as a mean dog might. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My true apotheosis came about when I caught a Grifter’s Bone show. It was in a seedy little bar, real hole in the wall type of place, and I hadn’t even known they would be playing- I had been there to check out the local music scene, yeah, but there was no mention of them on the band list. Still, they played, and the night was lost in a wash of red. As hard as I try, I… Cannot remember. My greatest regret, I think. To not be able to clearly picture that moment where I went from a mad dog, snapping at hands and kicking at strangers, to something </span>
  <em>
    <span>more.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I do remember the come down, waking up in an alley with my hands covered in blood and gripping at a cracked, dripping bottle. It was hard, crawling my pained way back to my shoebox apartment as cut up as I was, but there was a gut-deep satisfaction, a surety in the knowledge that I had left the other guy looking a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a lot worse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After that, my life boiled down to chasing after the band. It wasn’t just a bad joke when I told you I was a groupie- there was always that same sort of </span>
  <em>
    <span>knowing</span>
  </em>
  <span> I had that night when it came to where to find their next show. After that first night on the town, I retained some clarity in the bloodshed. You might think that mindless violence is scary, but the sort where you are fully aware of your actions and their consequences in full is </span>
  <em>
    <span>far</span>
  </em>
  <span> worse. And I began to feed off of that fear. There is no other word for what I did at those shows- too long between them, and I’d start to wane. Feeling the strength drain from a body which I had, by that point, entirely dedicated to pain, was horrifying. So I started setting up my own little brawls. Recorded some of their best songs and set off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The armor and the names came to be around when I started doing that. Your statements must’ve dived a bit into what I came to be- a haunt, a spectre of violence which would walk the streets at night and taunt passerbys into action with one hand held out in invitation and the other cradling a bluetooth speaker. I really wanted to drive home that freaky </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrongness</span>
  </em>
  <span>, look like I walked right out of the middle ages so people would instantly know what to expect and make rumor spreading all the easier. I had started out simply attacking people, my shitty phone speaker and the music wheezing out of it enough to incite retaliation. They would fight back, and I would leave then broken enough to be unable to do so anymore yet still whole enough to remember the encounter. It always ended with me coming out on top, and that was enough for me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Until someone came back. I recognized her the instant she had shouted at me from across the street in the dead of night. Real come and go sort, looked like the person you’d pass on the street and never remember. Bet she worked some real shit fast food job, putting up with the anger of customers day in and day out with the full knowledge that speaking back would leave her without a job. That was exactly why I had first singled her out, and just a few weeks later, she was charging at me with </span>
  <em>
    <span>violence</span>
  </em>
  <span> in her eyes. Barely enough time to heal up, the bruises and scrapes still stark in the streetlights. She was upon me in a moment, and it was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>best</span>
  </em>
  <span> fight of my life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’d gotten a taste of violence and returned the violence thricefold. I still came out on top, but barely. It was one thing to fight with the average person, but to understand that there was nothing on the other’s mind but to make you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to inflict the same pain onto you that you wished on them? It was an entirely different world. So I decided to shake up the old night prowl a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I started to let people get the best of me. Bear the greatest brunt of blows and turn the other cheek at all the violence with hopes that they would come back as she had, having gotten a taste of what it meant to be the big dog while the music guided their actions. I learned that to be hurt was almost as fulfilling as to hurt. They were </span>
  <em>
    <span>investments</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than victims now, you see? I could only hope that they would drag themselves back to their tiny homes and unfulfilling lives, trudge through their day to day lives in which they shouldered all the shit the world threw at them without complaint, and that they would eventually come back to that dark street corner for another taste of </span>
  <em>
    <span>freedom</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure it's my predictability that led Gertrude to me, and that was the reason that she left me be after a good tussle. Was she testing her strength, seeing if she could best one such as myself? I don’t know, but there was a brilliant, roundabout sense of fate when she chewed off the same finger that still had dog-teeth scars on it. It opened my eyes to the very real existence of others alike-yet-not to me, and the very real fun that could come with shaking their dedication to their own powers with a handful of notes from a battered speaker. I never sought them out- it was Jude who walked up to me, after all- but it was something to mull over. To ask questions about, gathering a greater understanding than what came instinctually to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I wonder,” Beowulf’s voice came out as a sigh, clarity and awareness slowly dribbling back into their eyes, “If all that was to set up this one moment. In which a simple knight could lord information over </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> archivist and propose a simple choice that I already know you will not take. You’re too scared of pain, and I hate to admit that I’m too soft to force you into it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> are not normal, not by any means, and the Eye’s spider-plans are too great a risk to interfere with. Much less in such an overt way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A long silence stagnated between the two. Beowulf scooped up another forkful of fried rice, wrinkling their nose as they chewed it. “Look at that. Made my food go cold.” Still, they persisted with another bite before pointing the fork at Jon. “Make sure you put that recording in your archives, yeah? Like the thought that among all the big dogs in this world, I still got my little moment in the limelight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Jon struggled to shake off the haze that overcame him with every statement, “Oh. Yes, of course. For, ah, archiving purposes.” They both knew the archives weren’t worth a damn at this point, and that their statement would not be filed away for any record keeping purpose. There were clues sprinkled throughout there, ones which Jon </span>
  <em>
    <span>must</span>
  </em>
  <span> find and decipher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why, though?” That got a raised eyebrow from Beowulf. “Why taunt me, I mean, if its ultimately pointless? All you’ve done is give me crumbs of information and- er, some egg rolls.” Jon had entirely forgotten about the bag of food still in his lap until that moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like I said, I like the idea of being the star, if just for a moment. Scared you plenty, as well. Not much funnier than watching a twig like you struggle with fear and anger alike, caught at a crossroads and unsure of how to act. Or maybe,” And their eyes slide up to some point above and behind Jon, straightening their shoulders and tightening their grip on the fork, “I wanted to give you a little goose chase. You certainly keep the company of hounds aplenty, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wha-” A hand clapped down on Jon’s shoulder and he near choked, shoulders jolting up at such a speed that it hurt. If that happened one more time today, he was sure he’d have a heart attack. Fear froze him up, leaving only the growl of a voice above his head to help him identify the new horror of the day. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon.” Daisy. Oh lord, it was Daisy with her hand gripping his shoulder, looming over him like a malignant shadow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“De-Detective-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up.” The grip turned painful. Jon dared to angle up his head to keep an eye on her, catching how she jutted her jaw out towards Beowulf. “They human?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhm-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are they human?” She grit out, eyes narrowing when they dared to speak up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, I’m right here. Don’t have to ask the eye-man.” Beowulf’s voice was casual enough, but the grip upon their fork shifted so they were holding it in a more proper stabbing form, uncrossing their legs to brace feet against the park grass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not.” The takeaway container was gently placed to the side, as if they were still planning on coming back to it after all this. “But remember, we are in a very public place right now. Don’t do anything stupid, miss Detective.” They scoffed at her low growl. “Come on, don’t get your hackles raised. Just heard Jon call you that, I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>following </span>
  </em>
  <span>you or anything. Don’t have a stake in whatever business you lot have going on, really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daisy hummed, then looked back to Jon. Her eyes were hard, cold resolution apparent in them. “Have they killed people?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” He balked at the sudden spotlight, cringing lower and unsure of where to flinch to. Behind him was Daisy, but to his side was the knight with a fork angled towards him in their hand and one foot starting to tap impatiently on the ground. “Er- I-I don’t know, I- I think?” They hadn’t explicitly stated any death, but his thoughts darted like a panicked trout to the statements. The injuries described there were gristly, were horrid, bloody things- there was no way </span>
  <em>
    <span>nobody </span>
  </em>
  <span>died from the years upon years they had been pulling their little act, could there? “Yes, I think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right then.” Daisy let go of his shoulder and lunged for Beowulf in an instant. The action was broken down into colored flashes- Daisy’s dusty coat slamming into his face, dull iron swinging out in surprise- and garbled sensations- the sudden slamming of the ground underneath his back, the dribble of something hot upon his arm- and pitched sounds- shouts, of course there were shouts, but the frantic clinking of metal and the visceral undernote of flesh being rent. It was over in a moment, leaving Jon knocked out of the bench and scrambling to right himself from his dead drop onto the grass- a motion that ground to a halt the instant Daisy grabbed for his arm. “Don’t try to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her voice was low, her eyes were dark. Jon glanced down at her side and suppressed a whine. That’s where the fork had ended up. Buried near the end of the tines- and what sort of take out place gave out </span>
  <em>
    <span>metal</span>
  </em>
  <span> silverware? Or did Beowulf carry their own just in case of such a scenario- and his eyes flickered down to the other who had been sprawled out beside him, bloody nose and all. Looked like Daisy had gotten them quick enough to knock them out cold, though not before they could retaliate. “Jon.” The voice made him startle, moving a half step back before Daisy’s hold began to dig into his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective, you- you-” He clenched his jaw shut for a moment before he couldn’t help but try to stutter out a sentence again, helpless to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>shut up</span>
  </em>
  <span> when scared, when it might be safest to do just that and listen instead. “You- Oh god, people must have seen-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He whirls to look for just that, eyes on the prowl for witnesses, as Daisy circles around the bench to stare down at Beowulf. “Don’t know how much time you spent chatting with your monster pal,” She pulled back a foot, “But it got late.” A swift kick to the head. Jon blinked, realized she was right. It was nearing the later part of twilight. “People don’t hang around parks late.” Another kick. “And their little troupe had packed up before I stepped up.” Another. “And people don’t like to talk about </span>
  <em>
    <span>weird</span>
  </em>
  <span> things.” Daisy steadied her stance and reached up to the embedded fork with one hand, nose wrinkled in distaste. “I guess we’ll just have to deal with it if you get another statement about someone beating up a knight.” She jerked it out, the pain expressed in breath hissed through grit teeth. “Now come on. Turn </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>off,” A glare directed towards the tape recorder Jon hadn’t realized he was cradling at his chest, near hugging it, “and help me get them into the car. You try to run, you know what will happen.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AH idk if it was rlly conveyed but i wanted beowulf 2 play a role similar to that of vampires (like how theyre implied 2 be used to train up new hunters) in that they go about as this weirdo local legend during the night searching out those who might already b predisposed 2 the slaughter and taunting them into fights already rigged in their favor with the hopes of them getting hooked on that unadulterated violence+coming back 4 more</p><p>ALSO bc it is a very good album ill say that the show from the clippings album there existed an addiction to blood is an INCREDIBLY good song that makes me think of the slaughter (daveed diggs opening+closing verses from la mala ordina are rlly good ones too)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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